


Gallery

by spuffyduds



Category: due South
Genre: 100-1000 Words, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-06
Updated: 2010-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-05 22:21:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/46629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spuffyduds/pseuds/spuffyduds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>An "undercover as the Bookman" story.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Gallery

**Author's Note:**

> An "undercover as the Bookman" story.

One of the weird things about becoming the Bookman is his photo gallery.

Apparently the guy just loved having his picture taken. Or at least he liked to prove that he knew everybody. So one wall in the great room of his huge house is floor-to-ceiling silver-framed photos, halfway along the wall's length, and he's in every one--smirking at the camera, arm slung around a made man or a mob boss, a "legitimate businessman" or maybe even a legitimate businessman, showgirls in their headdresses, mayors and congressmen in their dull suits.

And when Ray's tired and slightly drunk--which he is most nights because it's the only way he can get to sleep in this house that's too fucking huge and too fucking quiet--when he's prowling the house in silk pajamas, checking the alarm system and trying to convince himself he doesn't need another drink before bed, sometimes the photos catch him off guard. Sometimes he'll catch a glimpse of himself out of the corner of his eye, arm around a gorgeous topless woman, and think, when did I meet _her_, and why don't I remember it? Oh. Right.

One of the things the feds drummed into him during his crash course in Langoustini was: Continue Established Patterns. Same barber, same favorite restaurants. So Ray figures, same look at me! I know everybody! So he buys more silver frames, gets more pictures taken with goombahs and politicos (and, yeah, showgirls) and keeps the wall going.

And one night sometime in his eighth month as Armando, he glances at one kind-of-dull picture, grinning Langoustini and grinning generic guy in gray suit. And--wait, didn't he actually _meet_ that guy? So maybe that was _him_. And then he starts trying to figure out which was the last picture of the dead guy and the first picture of him, and he can't, and he ought to be able to, he hasn't drunk _that_ much tonight, did the staff put them back up out of order after they polished the frames?

So he starts studying the pictures hard, taking them off the wall one by one, staring, putting them back. But he still can't figure it out, and he's muttering to himself, another habit he's picked up because the house is too fucking huge and too fucking quiet. And when he's studying the fifth or sixth or thirtieth photo he notices that what he's muttering isn't "Dead guy or me?" anymore, it's "Was this before or after I died?"

He hangs the picture back up, nudges the corners until it's perfectly straight, and goes to get another drink.

 

\--END--


End file.
